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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135206">there i go, twisting your arm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/comorbidity/pseuds/comorbidity'>comorbidity</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, M/M, Unrequited Crush</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:15:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,115</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135206</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/comorbidity/pseuds/comorbidity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Living in such close proximity has done nothing to help Alex's useless feelings, his pathetic infatuation with his disaffected flatmate only worsening over time. But until now he's kept his mouth shut, valuing George as a friend over George as the unwitting recipient of his confessions. </p><p>And then there was alcohol and closeness and the smell of George's hoodie and the sight of George's profile and the neon haze of Alex's bedroom, and the admission has spilled from his lips with unthinking ease.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Andrew/Alex Elmslie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>there i go, twisting your arm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The room has taken on a bit of a tilt, semi-visible in a blur of fairy lights and neon and shadow. The only thing in focus is George, reliable and stable and so breathtakingly <em> there</em>, cross legged on Alex's bed and so much more sober than Alex, who's half-seated and half-slumped against George's side. Alex buries his face into George's shoulder and revels in the scent of him, laundry detergent from a freshly cleaned hoodie and that questionable natural deodorant he uses, and it's sharp and a bit dissonant and completely intoxicating.</p><p>"You're fucking pissed, mate," George is saying. Alex tries to watch George's hands (George has his elbows on his knees, relaxed pose offset by the way his fingers are worrying at one another), but it's easier to keep his eyes closed. The room swims less that way.</p><p>"Mmyeah," Alex murmurs in reply. He's still breathing deeply into the hoodie, dimly hoping that it isn't obvious what he's doing. Sometimes you just want a whiff of your best mate's clothing.</p><p>"Thought you wanted to go to the club." George is being brusque, the way he gets when he's a few drinks in - enough to feel a buzz and feel self-conscious about it, but not enough to loosen up. "You're not going out like this." He tries to sound authoritative, but it's undercut slightly by the occasional slurred phrase.</p><p>It's a laugh anyway, since Alex knows George doesn't go to clubs unless he's dragged there. He imagines George is only putting up a token argument for the sake of his image. "M'fine," Alex says, knowing he can barely see straight, let alone stand, let alone manoeuver his way into public and not get run over by a bus. He just wants to know what George will say, enjoys the way George can get at least a little bit protective when Alex is acting the fool.</p><p>"Bullshit," is the concise reply. Fitting. Alex wishes his head was spinning somewhat less so that he could look up at George, watch his set and moody profile, blue eyes reflecting the pink ambient lighting. He contents himself with nuzzling against George's shoulder, wishing he could burrow into the hoodie and stay intertwined with George all night long, original plans be damned. Of course, that would require them to move several steps beyond their current platonic arrangement, but Alex doesn’t let those little details deter his fantasies.</p><p>"You're right," Alex says, attempting to speak clearly with no small amount of difficulty. "Let's stay in." He doesn't know what he means by that, much as he's enjoying being as pressed against George as drunken propriety will allow. He's rarely so bold sober; George is usually too standoffish to try anything.</p><p>"Maybe you should sleep."</p><p>Alex blinks a little at the suggestion. It's not even midnight. He feels like he won't be falling asleep for hours, though the booze will likely have something to say about that.</p><p>"M'not tired," he replies. It comes out in a pout.</p><p>"Yeah, but you're really drunk." There's an implication in George's tone that Alex can't quite discern, though it may be that George feels Alex is <em> too </em> drunk. Alex makes another wish, this time for the static in his mind to quiet down so he can hear himself think.</p><p>Alex finally lifts his head and opens his eyes. There's that profile - jaw peppered with a few days' worth of stubble, eyes visibly tired behind the glasses even in the dim light of the room. Ignoring the alarm bells chiming somewhere beneath the haze of alcohol, Alex nudges George with his own shoulder. "You okay?"</p><p>"Me? I'm all right." George doesn't look over at Alex as he says it. "I'm just worried about you."</p><p>Feeling very stupid and very fluttery over that last, Alex hums a happy note. "It's so cute when you worry," he says. He once read that a drunk mind speaks sober truths, or something of that ilk; the feeling is more akin to helplessness at his own lack of filter. But he's not thinking about the risks right now, not when George is right here, present and overwhelming and impossibly beautiful even looking like he hasn't left the flat in days (which he probably hasn't). And alcohol is only an infrequent pass to being completely candid, if you're being at least halfway responsible.</p><p>George smiles at that - or maybe it's closer to a grimace. Alex isn't sure, and he doesn't want to think that it might be the latter. He leans his head back against George's shoulder.</p><p>"You know what," Alex says, speaking before he can stop to consider the ramifications of proceeding. The next words on his tongue aren't fully formed yet, and nor are the thoughts. The vodka is doing its best to ensure that there will be no chance to worry about the repercussions before the next part is uttered.</p><p>"Mm."</p><p>"I've had a crush on you since... I don't know, forever." Alex doesn't regret the admission immediately. He can't stop himself. "Isn't that ridiculous?" It's anything but. It's been his entire existence, pretty much since they've known each other. Living in such close proximity has done nothing to help Alex's useless feelings, his pathetic infatuation with his disaffected flatmate only worsening over time. But until now he's kept his mouth shut, valuing George as a friend over George as the unwitting recipient of his confessions. </p><p>And then there was alcohol and closeness and the smell of George's hoodie and the sight of George's profile and the neon haze of Alex's bedroom, and the admission has spilled from his lips with unthinking ease.</p><p>He's not sure how he wants George to respond. No reasonable part of him expects anything in return (because George is affectionate in his own quiet way, sure, expressed through gestures more so than words, but never have those acts led Alex to believe that he's any more special than any of their other mates, and he knows this, knows the dry, flirtatious banter is nothing more than ironic humour, knows that their rare hugs never linger beyond an acceptably platonic length, knows all of this and reminds himself day after day after day).</p><p>The irrational part of him spends several glorious seconds imagining a parallel universe, some offshoot timeline far detached from their current reality, in which George answers him with a kiss and they can stop playing this silly game of avoidance.</p><p>"Huh." That's the response. A single syllable. Not even a word.</p><p>Alex feels something in his chest clench; he tries to ignore the sour taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with the booze. He straightens back up once more, though this time he doesn't look at George. Right now, it feels impossible.</p><p>"Sorry." Alex drags out the reply, ending with an upward inflection so that it's almost a question. He needs more from George - a joke, even, if it helps to dispel the tension. The sense of regret is finally settling in, crumbling his drunken bravado in a single fell swoop. But it's much too late to take it back now.</p><p>George is still fiddling with his fingers. "Don't know what to say to that, really."</p><p>Alex looks at his own hands and starts to twist one of the rings around. The fidgeting helps him to focus, to allay the panic that desperately wants to take over. "Didn't mean to make it weird," he says. He suddenly feels very sober. Was he really so sure of himself not minutes before? It seems ludicrous now.</p><p>"It's all right," George says, though it doesn't sound quite truthful.</p><p>Fifteen minutes ago, they had been watching stupid videos and drinking vodka crans and existing in peaceable harmony as friends, nothing more, in spite of Alex's undercurrent affections. Alex wants to go back there, turn the clock back just enough to undo his words and the press of his face to George’s shoulder, return to the point before he started clinging to George like a lifeline while the other grew tense and radiated anxiety in a way that seems so obvious in cruel retrospect.</p><p>"It doesn't mean anything," Alex says. Empty words. It means everything, but George - George, his friend and flatmate, the person he could count on for quiet support and sometimes a healthy dose of cynicism, the pragmatic counter to Alex's idealism, his closest confidant - George means more. And Alex has taken an axe to that foundation with one stupid sentence.</p><p>He tells himself that it doesn't have to change anything between them if George doesn't care. But of course he does - just not in the way that means he can laugh off Alex's confession and move on as though there's nothing to worry about. Alex suspects - knows - George cares because not returning the sentiment means Alex might be hurt, that there has been a hidden fissure in their easy dynamic for untold years.</p><p>And George isn't wrong, but it's also not his responsibility. If Alex had said nothing, then it would have never been a problem.</p><p>"Sure." George's body language speaks volumes more than his monosyllabic responses. He still isn't looking at Alex.</p><p>Alex has the distinct feeling of tumbling over the edge of a precipice, hands scrambling for purchase and coming up with nothing but air as he plummets into the inescapable chasm of his mistake. Their knees are still touching but it's as though a barrier has come up between them in the past few moments, a gulf that's placed George well out of reach. Alex wants to bridge the gap, take George into his arms and apologise a thousand times over if it would bring back the comfort of blissful ignorance, but he knows that would only make things worse.</p><p>"I'm off," George says. "You should sleep." He rises to his feet and stumbles his way off the bed. He still hasn't turned around.</p><p>Alex stops himself from reaching for George's wrist. The last thing he wants is for George to leave on this note, but despite his desperate search for anything to say that might break the awful tension, he comes up with nothing that could fix this in time. It's possible that the morning will bring a clearer head and a reduced air of helpless severity, but Alex can't be sure. And he's petrified.</p><p>"George," he calls out, weak but insistent enough to stop the other before he reaches the door. "I'm sorry."</p><p>George pauses with his hand on the doorknob. He looks over his shoulder, and Alex can finally see him head on - eyes blue and reflected pink and exhausted and so viscerally mournful.</p><p>There's guilt there, and Alex takes it in like a knife twisting between his ribs.</p><p>"Goodnight Al," George replies softly. </p><p>Alex doesn't watch as George leaves and shuts the door behind him. He's buried his face in his hands, taking several shuddering breaths; there are no tears, but he doesn't think he's out of the woods quite yet. For now, a sort of cold numbness reigns, undercut only by his fury at himself for being so impossibly stupid.</p><p>Maybe George is right. Sleep would be good. Being unconscious would be better than existing in this awful vortex of self-loathing and regret.</p><p>Alex barely makes it into his ensuite to get ready for bed, fumbling through the dark so that he won't have to look at his own reflection in the mirror as he brushes his teeth. When he falls back into his bed and buries himself in the duvet, he finally feels angry tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He wipes them away with a rough motion. He doesn't deserve to sit here and mope in a private pity party. Not when he's the one who's fucked up so badly.</p><p>He thinks of the guilt etched into every corner of George's expression, the sight burned into Alex's mind. It's unfair, so fucking unfair, because Alex is the idiot, Alex let the heady confidence of the vodka run his mouth, Alex made the mistake of putting George on the spot, and George shouldn't have to be the one who feels bad for it. </p><p>He thinks about George. George, his best mate. Someone he trusts, probably more than anyone else. Someone he would never expect to hurt him - not deliberately - and he can only assume George would have felt the same before tonight.</p><p>And with one slip, Alex has let him down.</p><p>There's no saying how things will feel tomorrow. Alex is afraid to face the daylight - to face George and all of the night's consequences. </p><p>He winds up being right about one thing, at least. Sleep doesn't find him for hours.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i'm rereading far from xanadu (/pretend you love me) &amp; i had to get this out of my system</p><p>title is from sufjan stevens &amp; the rest of the planetarium crew's 'venus'</p></blockquote></div></div>
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